The NPC Chronicles
by GoodWillHunting
Summary: Two lives. Two fates. One epic journey. A story that entails much, yet might as well not. The NPC Chronicles.  Collaboration between ffgtfgtr and Korona Karyuudo
1. Beauty of Fast Food

_Korona Karyuudo: And, here we go! A new project that ffgtfgtr and I have started called the NPC Chronicles. Using strange, wacky comparisons, we will be attempting to give every Pokemon Game NPC an actual personality or way of living/thinking/being. The first prompt response is mine; the second isn't. I hope you guys follow us through this 'journey' and maybe even leave us ideas to do next time! Oh, and just so you know, this in no way has anything to do with the actual fic we've been planning for a while, so it is also not our first collab together.. if that made sense... Well, bye!_

_ffgtfgtr: This is what happens when you really feel like chatting but don't have anything to chat about._

_Anyways, yeah, the first one is hers, second is mine.  
_

* * *

Prompt: Beauty + Fast Food

Info: Yes you guys, we ARE comparing the 'Beauty' character in the games to fast food, something that would actually repulse them in real life. How fun. =)

Disclaimer: No, neither one of us are in ownership of Pokemon. Sucks doesn't it. ='(

* * *

Above her head the light from the chandelier sparkled off of the surrounding crystal beads and panes, shrouding the room in rainbows. Sitting daintily, legs crossed, arms folded gently on the table, she stared at her reflection in the mirror.

So flawless, so...so beautiful.

Being pretty took time, and Lugia knows she took all time in the world. Although, she perfected it to less than 10 minutes, 5 if she were in a hurry, like wanting the fast food one orders: right away too.

It was worth it really, seeing how men drooled after her appearance as if she were some sort of beefy hamburger, some kind of taco they'd want to unwrap. The cover-up smoothed her complexion, her face finely coated, finely coated like the beautiful golden brown breadcrumbs on chicken. Her eyes smoldered; a wonderful fire just waiting to cook, to burn. Hair, golden, golden gently splayed down her back in waves like the dressing or sauce being spurted out from a large bottle.

And the beauty, staring, staring with a blind eye back at her reflection quickly applied some gloss to her plump lips; greasy, taunting, you'd want to just eat them up with kisses.

Beautiful, she thought, just beautiful.

It wasn't easy being a beauty, but oh how it was worth the price.

* * *

Hair curlers. Check.

Hair dye. Yep.

Eye liner? Positive.

Mascara. Of course.

Nail polish. Duh.

How about lipstick? Can't leave home without it.

And the final touches... done!

And it only took half an hour to engineer this look, like the patties for fast food burgers, frozen at first with the enhancements locked inside and then slowly seeping out on the greasy grill.

"Let's go, Mary. You too, Fluffy!" our synthetic superstar calls. Her 'little darlings,' Mary the Marill and Fluffy the Glameow, follow her out of the bathroom and down the shining wooden stairs into the living room.

She grabs a pair of heels made of (fake) snakeskin, and sits on her (faux) leather chair as she pulls them on, slowly sinking into the unstuffed depths of the furniture before she finishes and hops right back out.

"Showtime you two; let's do this right. And Mary, for Ho-oh's sake," she drawled, "Don't do a stage dive."

She grabs her (artificial) mink coat, heads out the glass door, and strolls down the path to the sidewalk. It was a short walk to the theater, and she'd of course get to see her lovely fans gape at her looks, the flawless way she applied every single drop of every single makeup. She should be paid just for that.

But, in a way, she was.

She waves to the next door neighbor as he adjusts his contact lenses. He's received his order and is of course enjoying it, vaguely knowing of what's behind his meal but not caring. He's wearing an Armani, of course, and is probably readying himself to see her perform.

And then, a single raindrop.

Then another.

And one more.

The clouds have opened up, gotten upset, started to cry, and soon the tears are filling up the storm drains like cups of water. Free refills, of course.

And as our bogus beauty looks around at the scurrying pedestrians looking for cover, she looks at her pokemon. Fluffy is ticked at the rain, as usual; Mary is dancing around, as usual.

That's when she looks herself over in her compact.

She can only watch as her makeup, every lovely bit of it, starts to drip, peel off like old paint, uncover her real face and smear it simultaneously.

As beautiful as she looked on the outside, everyone always knew that it was just a cover.

Nothing is ever as good as it looks, and this is just an example.

Reality 1, Engineering 0.

* * *

_Prompt number 1 is done! Prompt number 2, coming soon! =)_

_ffgtfgtr_: _Hooray for bringing a relevant social topic into FF! XD_

_Hey, this isn't fair, why do you get the first AND last words?  
_

_Korona Karyuudo: Oh come now, we'll change it up next time if that'll make you feel better. ;) Bye for now! Don't forget to R&R, maybe favorite, alert, etc? Or, quite possibly check out our separate accounts! Till next time! - Torrie_


	2. The Factory Cyclist

_ffgtfgtr: This isn't my best, but I liked the analogy. Wow, short comments this time.  
_

_Korona Karyuudo: OHH the biker person this time. Not one of my faves, but still pretty good. =) By the way, the first prompt response is mine, the second belongs to the guy above me. =P_

* * *

Prompt: Cyclist + Factory Elements

Info: Easy enough of a prompt, but also fun to write. Enjoy! =)

Disclaimer: If we owned Pokemon do you honestly think we'd be writing fanfiction?

* * *

Riding, riding down the lanes; faster, faster, like flying.

It wasn't like this when he first started.

No, in fact he was horrible at riding a bike, always falling, tripping over, hitting the wrong brake, FORGETTING to hit the brake. All scratched up, all bruised up. And he got yelled at by his boss for making so many mistakes. He kept on screwing up orders to customers, kept on putting the wrong pieces into the wrong slots, backing up orders all while losing his hearing from lack of earplugs.

He didn't know any better in a factory, but, harder he worked, fueled by motivation to keep doing his job, keep doing better.

And, his biking improved immensely.

No more falling, no more hurting, sometimes even riding with no hands on the bars. The training wheels were off, and he moved up the chain, getting better jobs, higher pay, promotions, and finally learning to use those ear plugs.

Now, pedaling faster, he propelled himself up and over the last hill and to the finish line.

He's won the race; he's earned the position as the factory's boss, and nothing could bring him down.

* * *

Click.

The trigger on the handgun pulled like a man punching his card in at work, and suddenly, everything starts up.

The heavy machinery coils up and loosens, almost like a yoga instructor, calibrating itself for the busy work day ahead.

And the race is on.

The pedals are hammered like nails, except they keep popping back up; just to be put down again, almost like an OCD kid playing with a jack-in-the-box. Everyone remains in their lines, for a single inch is the difference between keeping a hold on your place or a spectacular failure, like welding a sheet of metal wrongly, or pressing the incorrect key on a piano, missing the note completely.

One inch is all it takes.

Like the proverbial well-oiled machine, they continue on, chugging along as they down their water, tossing the water bottles aside carelessly when they finish, like an extra screw.

They have no need for thinking hard, because everything is already regulated.

Left turn, 40 degrees.

Right turn, 125 degrees, slight climb.

Long straightaway, downhill.

Muscle memory has gotten them this far, no matter what lactic acid has to say. They're going all the way, whether they finish first or last. Sure, they'll be exhausted once the race is over, but that's because they have time to think about the pain, think about the race.

For now, they go on, strategy etched in their minds like the path ahead, the constant blur of the pack, the slight vision impairments they may have from being on the bike too long.

But it's all worth it at the end of the day. Especially if you win.

They get nearer and nearer to town, the fans growing louder with each one passed, and soon the final straight lies ahead of them like the path to home plate.

The banner is cut; we have a winner.

And finally, everything shuts down.

_

* * *

_

_Korona Karyuudo: And there you go. Hope you liked it.. I guess. Till Next Time readers and reviewers! - Torrie =)_

_ffgtfgtr: *wonders why Till Next Time was capitalized...* Anyways... yeah. What she said. *peace sign*_

_::KK: Because it's MY goodbye phrase. Oh, that's right, forgot you didn't have one =P::_


	3. A Biker's Surprise

_Korona Karyuudo: The prompt this time is for the Biker dudes. ffgtfgtr is currently on a road trip so I'm posting this in his absence. That is also why he has no commentary this time... Well, enjoy you guys. The first prompt response is mine and the second is his. _

* * *

Prompt: Biker + Surprises

Info: The macho, leather, studded biker VS. Surprises. What. A. Prompt. xD

Disclaimer: Don't ride motorcycles without a certified license as you may be prone to accidents. On another note, we don't own Pokemon.

* * *

Vroom… Vro- Vroom…

My motorcycle reared to life with the force of a galloping Rapidash. She's a beaut' oh yes she is.

I was tired of this town, tired of the everyday expectations of people to follow the rules, tired of all the goddamn surprises. I wanted freedom, and riding down the highway, wind puffing up my leather jacket black as night behind me as I rode on.. was a precious thing.

So precious.

Further on her motor purred as we flew like airplanes, faster, longer a distance, and away from the past that haunted us.

Chancing a quick glance in my rear mirror, I admired the way my Mohawk stood up proudly against the wind; not bending, not snapping, nor whipping of hair every which-way. This was no surprise; I used only the best of hair gel of course. My pearly white teeth glinted, sparkled, and dazzled me slightly from reflecting the sun's bright rays, but all was well, nothing surprising there either.

It was thrilling, shocking, and I loved it. I loved zooming faster than a Dodrio ever could, or an Arcanine, even a Shiftry.

It was euphoria I tell you, sweetly sinful euphoria that I succumbed to. And, my high drove me onward, as well as inward. It compelled me so, that I had quickly to disregard the fact that I was slowing down; just slightly. More of a slow, a sputter in the engine, and finally my ears woke up to the sound.

My baby!

There was something wrong.

Almost completely out of life force energy now, I slammed the brakes. Quickly I shuffled out of my seat, ran to check on the different pieces: the carbonation, the oil, the water, the battery.

All was good, so what was wrong?

Sliding back into the seat with a practiced ease, I slammed my head down hard on the handles. Opening my eyes from their blurry stupor, the answer to it all stared back at me. Here, in the middle of absolute nowhere…

The gas tank sat at empty.

A single tear rolled down my cheek as I thought bitterly:

Mew, how I hate surprises.

* * *

The near-maniacal laughter of the gruff biker would probably have been heard a block away, if not for the fact that his motorcycle's engine was audible from TWO blocks away.

"God, I love this baby!" he exclaimed to himself as he hopped on, gripping the throttle as he'd been taught, loosely but not too loosely. After revving the engine a couple times for good measure, he took off down the driveway and out to the highway.

Just as the routine called for.

The wind in his face, the wheels skidding underneath him with every wild turn he made, the bugs –SPLAT- on his windshield, nothing was out of the ordinary today. The sun was shining, so he had no need for a jacket, and his bike felt even more controlled than usual, bending to his every whim as the handlebars instructed it to.

Yes, it was a perfect day for riding, and fellow riders agreed. In just one mile, he saw five other riders, though two of them didn't count; they were on crotch rockets.

He took a turn down his normal route, a forested road where nobody really went.

"Too windy," they said.

"Too narrow," went others.

"Just right," he thought.

He zoomed down the road, a full tank of gas and a perfectly tuned engine underneath him. As usual. Spotting the one signal down this road, he saw the greenish light shine on him, as if beckoning him towards it.

As he neared the light, it showed a much less inviting yellow. Meh, he'd run red lights before. Nothing too out there.

Throttling the engine, he sped up.

60, 70, 80.

And just as he got to the intersection, he saw something out of the corner of his eye.

Boom.

A Greyhound bus.

This wasn't part of the routine.

_

* * *

_

_Korona Karyuudo: If you couldn't tell, ffgtfgtr killed his guy, which is why the disclaimer is written that way... Uhh, stay tuned for the next one. I'm thinking either Monday, Tuesday, or Wednesday.. Till Next Time! -Torrie_


	4. Walking in a Bird Keeper's Shoes

_Korona Karyuudo: I've got nothing more to say than this is my favorite prompt yet. =) So um, yeah first prompt is mine!_

_ffgtfgtr: This one's a really good one too, though our perspectives on this are quite different. Oh yeah, and I thought of this prompt :D My parents must be so proud.  
_

* * *

Prompt: Bird Keeper + Shoes

Info: Okay so this one is kind of weird, but it came out pretty great. The bird keeper VS. shoes. Crazy isn't it?

Disclaimer: Remember children! Birds in the real world are NOT Pokemon. If you try to fly on them, you WILL fall and die (first considering if you even succeed mounting one in the first place). Don't do this in the real world. But, if you want to be a bird keeper, then by all means, do so. We don't own Pokemon.

* * *

Together; that's how it has always been and that's how it will always be.

Together we soar through the skies as opposed to walking down bleak roads, soles of our feet thump thump thumping against the hard ground. High up in the deep blue sky we fly, catching wind drafts, elevating a tad more, then dropping a couple feet.

Together, swimming through the air, wings of my beloved Pidgeotto flapping up, down, up, down like a human wearing flippers during a deep sea dive.

Navigating gracefully, with impeccable trust in one another, cutting through the billowing white clouds and leaving disappearing imprints as we keep on going. Flip-flop patterns on the beach disappearing under the waves.

We are a perfect fit.

Ever since catching my flying friend, my faithful Pidgeotto, we've been through many adventures. Although, they all have one thing in common; a love for the skies.

The whooshing sound in my ears grew louder as my hair wildly whipped around my head. A spin, a dive, a loop-de-loop, and once more a vertical course became apparent. With our destination nearing I think back. Through everything we've been through, the thrills, the excitement, the adventure; it would seem likely that we wore out a pair of comfortable combat boots.

But, no. I digress.

Our friendship was much grander than that, more like a pair of stiletto heels twisting, spinning around beautifully on the dance floor to the graceful, calming music. Or, better yet, ballet shoes that uplifted the wearer, with the utmost precision twirling, leaping through the air. Either way, Pidgeotto and I had a bond that would last forever.

We were the perfect pair, the perfect fit, and the perfect shoes that would last through anything:

Together.

* * *

Freedom.  
The ultimate advantage of being a bird.

Wherever, whenever, you can be there, getting there with just what you have.

No need for extra supplies, just the wings on your back and the cars underneath for when you just really have to go. Hey, what can they do about it?

The wings, for all intents, would be shoes of sorts, keeping your feet from touching the ground and carrying you to where you'd need to be.

Of course, they're ten times better.

Wings let you fly; shoes let you jump.

Wings mean your feet don't hurt at all; shoes can still give you blisters and don't provide complete protection.

Wings are there when you're born; shoes are manufactured, bought at a store and thrown away like diapers.

Wings are far more preferable to shoes, from anyone's point of view.

So tell me this: Why haven't we made them usable for us humans?

Why can't we be free?

_

* * *

_

_Korona Karyuudo: Alright, well I have no clue when the next one will be updated, but check back for it kk? Assuming you're interested that is... Bye! - Torrie_

_ffgtfgtr: Uhh... what she said? *obviously can't think of anything to say*  
_


	5. A Flurry of Rainbow Belts

_Korona Karyuudo: I kind of also like this prompt a lot. Well, part of that might be because I came up with it ;) Anyways, for a nice change, my response is the second._

_ffgtfgtr: Oh yes, I really liked this one. Read, enjoy, and my response is first this time!  
_

* * *

Prompt: Black Belts + Rainbows

Info: Both of us didn't go for for the usual response of the different belt colors for this one. Enjoy the drawn out words that tell a magical story. =)

Disclaimer: Rainbows appear when you least expect them. Black belts are hard to obtain, but are reachable with training and practice. Either way, we don't own Pokemon AND we have no clue if there really is a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Don't forget the leprechauns!

* * *

The storm has arrived.

As our resident master, all the people in the audience are chanting his name, waving flags with his dojo's logo, catcalls and whistles resounding through the arena as if this were a fashion show instead of what it is.

Try as they may, though, they're not affecting. The power has been shut out for the area just around the storm, and nothing is getting in or out except his calm, cool breath.

The referee throws his arm down overdramatically, and his opponent made the first move, charging right at him like the proverbial man possessed.

In one swift motion, he sidestepped, and delivered a strike right to his ribs, possibly breaking it in half like a block of wood, and putting the man to the floor.

All in the first five seconds of the match.

The crowd roared, sounding like the galeforce winds of a hurricane, but with less debris. The only fallen tree is the man lying on the mat before him, and this one is going to pick itself right back up, try to redeem itself. The wind is getting to him, though, slowly eroding his confidence. There might be a couple in the audience rooting for him, but that's it.

He stands himself up, trying to feel like a wolf but just being the sheep. He waits this time, and our martial master simply stops a second to recalculate, and darts in for a quick punch, like lightning itself.

Just before he gets there, though, he stops, and instead does a spectacular spinning kick to the head.

Boom.

Thunder.

The storm is over, and as he realizes he's won, he smiles.

And out comes the rainbow.

He's the same jolly instructor as before now, but with one extra trophy to put on the mantle at the dojo.

* * *

You can't have a rainbow without the rain.

Neither can you earn a black belt without the work.

Every week you visit the dojo; every week you put on your fighting robes and tie on that belt that distinguishes your rank from others.

You're tired of being thought weak, so the only way to go from there is up.

To get up, up, and over the rainbow. To get up the ranks, from one color to the next.

The sweat drips from your brow, soaking your back, like the rain.

And finally, finally after months of work and practice, you're at your final match.

Win this and you win your black belt.

A kick, a parry, a crash of thunder and flash of lightning.

Uh oh, you get knocked off your feet. But, before you're out for the count, you flip up and execute an excellent spin kick.

Under the pouring rain, you let go of your umbrella and smile as the drops of rain sting your skin with icy pinpricks.

Your opponent stumbles and falls, and as the rain stops, the clouds clear up, and the sun shines down on you once more, you're declared the winner of the fight.

A fight, a win, a rainbow appears. A miracle, and it's just for you.

The black belt is all yours, you've found the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

And, it's everything you've hoped for and more.

After all, you can't have a rainbow without the rain.

_

* * *

_

_Korona Karyuudo: Hmm Rainbows are a magical thing. =) The Bug Catcher should be next. Bye! - Torrie_

_ffgtfgtr: Wow, that sounded stupid. xD Until next time...  
_


	6. Weather Bug Patterns

_Korona Karyuudo: I came up with this weird prompt.. Anyway, my response is second because Will's is funnier. xD_

_ffgtfgtr: I actually don't like mine very much... but it was a tough prompt. Let's see you do better :P  
_

* * *

Prompt: Bug Catchers + Weather

Info: The idea was weird, but it works... somehow. Enjoy us comparing Bug Catchers to Weather. =)

Disclaimer: Rain will make you sick, the sun will burn you, hail will make your head hurt, and sandstorms will blind you for who knows how long. Either way, we don't own Pokemon and caution you to take proper precautions according to your local weather station forecasts.

* * *

Weather? Please.

They don't affect my beloved bugs in the slightest. They're bugs; they adapt quicker than they evolve, and that's saying something.

Rain? They don't get washed away, nor do they cower in fear of it like those Fire-types that think they beat us. Ha!

Hail? Sure, it may pound down on us, but it does them too.

The sun? Perfect for synthesis and other restoration effects, not to mention the ever-popular Solar Beam. Plus, it allows their natural food to grow!

Sandstorm? Meet Scizor, or Armaldo, or even a Nincada! We can resist them just fine, though the same can't be said for so many other pokemon.

It doesn't matter if they're Weedles or Beedrills, because my team of bugs can stand up to anything Mother Nature smites us with.

Can you say that about your team?

Now, let's battle: my Beedrill and your Blazik- oh, wait, it hasn't evolved yet. It's still a Torchic.

I rest my case.

* * *

Bugs Bugs Bugs.

Everywhere I go.

More Bugs.

And, when I try to catch them, they run away; they disappear like rain at the end of a storm.

Venonat over there, a ray of sunshine over here.

Beedrill down that pathway, hail pounding thataway.

Beautifly around the corner, rainbows with all 7 colors in order.

More Bugs.

Everywhere I go.

And, finally, the clouds clear up and it's like paradise.

I can catch them all.

Bugs Bugs Bugs.

_

* * *

_

_Korona Karyuudo: This one was creepy. Updates will be...whenever.. I guess... -Torrie_

_ffgtfgtr: Whenever = when we have absolutely nothing to chat about but still feel like chatting. Until... the next time that happens.  
_


	7. Musical Burglars

_Korona Karyuudo: I like this prompt and response, even though our responses were..similar... I came up with it, and my response is second for no reason at all. =)_

_ffgtfgtr: This was quite fun to write, with my love of music... enjoy.  
_

* * *

Prompt: Burglars + Music

Info: This prompt is actually pretty good, and easy enough with all the different ways you could interpret it. Enjoy.

Disclaimer: Please do not try and do the things that these characters do. For one, it's against the law. Secondly, we don't want our readers to have crime records. Thirdly, you can get hurt. ='( We don't own Pokemon, as always. but, it's nice to dream ehh?

* * *

As he climbs in through the window (Unlocked, of course. The fools!), the chords of a guitar bounce around in his ears.

Nice and easy, he tiptoes through the house, making sure not to alert any neighbors.

Then, with a crash of the drums, he begins thrashing through the house.

Everything comes off the desk but the lamp, and that's where he finds his first value item, as the verse starts.

He stuffs the wallet in his bag as the rhymes dance around in his head madly, and he tears around the house looking for any other stray items of worth.

The chorus reverberates as he climbs the stairs, up to the bedrooms.

As soon as he walks in, there's just one word he can muster.

Jackpot.

Jewelry lying on the nightstands, wallets on the dressers, and what's this? An unlocked safe?

A new verse, and the same chorus come and go as he scrambles around, stashing everything he can into his trusty leather bag.

As he looks around for anything else, the solo screams in his ears, and he can practically feel his brain slamming around like it's in a mosh pit.

Up and down, down and up, the fingers are flying faster than his feet down the stairs, and he sees the window from which he came in as the final chorus echoes in his mind.

And as the singer's wails stop, the drumbeats calm down, and the guitar's whine slows like a baby falling to sleep, he makes his getaway out the back.

He's done it again, and in record time.

* * *

Smash in a couple of windows or lock pick a couple of doors.

Either way, a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do.

And, in this case, a man's gotta make a living.. by stealing.

As I make my way into the vacant home, I hear a slow whistling tune pick up. Throw in a harmonica and you've got some mystery.

Slowly I creep up the staircase, each step creaking with a clarinet note.

Along the hallway I crouch and leap, concealing myself in shadows as flutes create a counter melody.

The first room: nothing of value. Descending notes on a trombone.

The fifth room: Jackpot, and a triangle vibrates against the air.

Then you hear something startling, the cymbals clashing in your ears as drums pick up on the suspense.

The lights go on and suddenly you realize that you're not as alone as you thought you were.

The music's pace picks up as you rapidly try to make your escape.

Then, as you've reached the bottom of the staircase again, you notice a dropped phone, the dial tone playing like the steady strumming of a bass guitar.

Sirens scream in the distance like sudden trumpet blares and when you make it out the door and into the front lawn, you're blinded by the harsh spotlight.

"Hands up where we can see them," the officer says.

You oblige, throwing them up: Jazz Hands.

And, while they cuff you and stuff you into the car, the music fades out.

Burgling is a way of life, but it really sucks to get caught in the act.

_

* * *

_

_Korona Karyuudo: Jazz + Rock are the genres we used..if it wasn't obvious... Either way, bye! - Torrie_

_ffgtfgtr: Lol, I just noticed we both said Jackpot in there somewhere. Best closing comment ever. ;)  
_


End file.
